Neverland
by rain and leaves
Summary: Three years have passed. PeterWendy, rating is for violence in later chapters.
1. Default Chapter

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise is not mine.

Justification: Practice makes perfect. Also, am rusty. In addition, need feedback from strangers. Sixth and lastly, was traumatised by recent film version and needed a better ending.

Chapter One 

It was true that three years had passed. It was also true that she hadn't told a story in months, and that the ones she had told had been largely sedentary affairs on her part, but it had been something else that had prompted Wendy Darling to tell a special story tonight. Some sense of sadness, maybe, or some chill in the air. Most likely it was simply to distract herself from the tight feeling in her throat that she'd given in to the boys' pleading.

"You have opened the forbidden chamber!" John cried, brandishing the nursery key in her face. "See the blood on the key that all your craft could not remove!"

In response, Wendy pulled a sword from the umbrella-stand used for such things, facing Bluebeard John with a haughty eye. "I have seen your poor brides! Prepare to meet your just deserts!"

"Wendy," John said, dropping character and his own sword in the same motion. "You know you can't do the fights any more; you'll get beaten awfully badly."

Wendy jabbed, her skirts swirling magnificently around her, and John parried quite before he could think about it. "Have at thee!"

John set his jaw and returned blow for blow; and most marvellously they crashed and danced around the room, until all of a sudden Wendy lowered her blade, leaning heavily on the bureau. The boys stood in alarm as she gasped for breath. 

"You all right?" John asked, and squealed absolutely like a girl as he felt a gentle thrust in his ribs. Wendy grinned unrepentantly, sword in hand.

"Beaten badly, was it?"

"That was a trick!" he declared indignantly, looking surprised when the boys behind him laughed. She panted, her corset seeming ready to snap her in two, her vision dimming a little as she struggled for air. It had been impossible to resist, but he had been right. She really couldn't do this any more.

Leaning more heavily on the sturdy bureau, she laughed a little. "Not entirely, I'm . . . awfully out of breath . . ."

He helped her sit. "Anyway, not fair. You got John, not Bluebeard."

"I know, but you did make me cross just now." She smiled at him, breathing as freely as she could again.

The boys relaxed as one, returning to sit on the nursery floor just as the door opened. 

Mother popped her head around the door. "The guests are here children, you can come down now. Wendy, are you ready?"

"Oh yes," she replied, a shadow crossing her face as she rose. "Boys, Wendy's – I mean, the lady's brothers find Bluebeard and kill him in the end."

She thought she heard Nibs mutter, "Thought so," as they were herded out of the door, but she didn't stop to puzzle out the strange tone of his voice.


	2. Chapter Two

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise is not mine.

AN: This one's a songfic, because I absolutely broke down and cried the first time I heard My Lover's Gone (Dido) . . . well, it was right after I'd seen Peter Pan. And I was tired. Anyway, the other song is My Immortal by Evanescence, and they're both supposed to be Edwardian-style renderings of the songs.

**Chapter Two**.

They were introduced to a stern old lady and a dark-haired young man, whose names Wendy could never after remember, but though she didn't know _who_ they were, she knew very well _why_ they were there. The uncanny silence of the boys did nothing to alleviate the knot in her stomach. Telling herself her role in the evening's entertainment would soon be over, she smiled and breathed slowly and did her best to calm herself.

Mother smiled at her from the piano. 

"The first is an American song, the second an arrangement of an Irish tune." Wendy heard herself say in a voice that sounded not quite her own. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she fixed her eyes on the far wall of the drawing room and began, the soft notes of the piano tinkling in her wake.

"I'm so tired of being here . . . suppressed by all my childish fears – and if you have to leave, well I wish that you would just leave," the plaintive notes rising from her, sounding softer and sadder than she ever had rehearsing the song, then soaring into this next bit to keep the tears down, "Your presence still lingers here – and it won't leave me alone - these wounds won't seem to heal . . . this pain is just too real . . . there's just too much that time cannot erase," - and God she sounded sad – "When you cried I'd, wipe away all of your tears – when you screamed I'd, fight away all of your fears – I held your, hand through all of these years – but you still have . . . all of me." 

And now the piano piano'd on, and keeping her eyes wide was the best way to keep her voice from shaking, and resolutely she ignored the stare of a dark-haired blur in the corner of her vision.

"You used to captivate me . . . by your resonating light, but now I'm bound, by the life you left behind. Your face it haunts – my most pleasant dreams," oh _no_ she'd done it again, the phrase was once pleasant, _once_ pleasant, "Your voice it chased away – all the sanity in me." _Come away_ . . . "These wounds won't seem to heal . . . this pain is just too real . . . there's just too much that time cannot erase. When you cried I'd, wipe away all of your tears - when you screamed I'd, fight away all of your fears - I held your, hand through all of these years - but you still have . . ." Yes and now to really soar, all her energies devoted to keeping her voice steady now, ". . . I tried so hard to tell myself that you'd gone . . . but though you're still with me . . . I've been alone all along." Notes falling from the piano into the still air, once more into the chorus, and then she sang one last time that the unknown lover still had all of her, and the piano died away into the silence of the drawing room.

Muted applause followed from the adults, with more energetic clapping from her brothers old and new. Mother smiled at her from the piano again, but by the soft look in her eyes Wendy knew that her slip of the tongue had not gone unnoticed. 

"How lovely, Miss. Darling." The old lady said sternly. 

She blinked away a vague mist, smiling as pleasantly as she could. It was amazing how some adults could make a simple compliment sound so disapproving. 

The young man smiled at her.

"Thank you, madam," she said diplomatically, resolving to discover the name from one of the others as soon as she could.

"The next is an Irish air." Mother said sweetly, stepping into the gap as always. 

Wendy took a deep breath, then another. That young man's stare was disturbing her, and the boys _would_ persist in giving her the strangest look, and there was that awful feeling in her chest again at the _thought_ of this song. One last breath now, and in time with the soft notes of the piano she began the lilting lament.

"My lover's gone . . ." steady,  "His boots no longer by my door. He left at dawn . . ." concentrating on the wallpaper, keeping her eyes wide, "and as I slept I felt him go. Returns no more . . ." oh God not this part, her voice rising and falling as she lilted the words, "I will not watch the ocean. My lover's gone . . . no earthly ships will ever bring . . . him home, again." She sounded unutterably sad to her own ears. "Bring . . . him home, again."

The wallpaper blurred and dimmed.

"My lover's gone . . . I know that kiss will be my last." Despite herself her voice shook on that line, yes impossible to deny exactly what _that_ meant to her, impossible to deny any of this song really – "No more his song . . . that tune upon his lips has passed. I sing alone . . . while I watch the ocean. My lover's gone . . . no earthly ships will ever bring . . . him home, again. Bring . . . him home, again."

She blinked rapidly to clear her vision, hoping the action was reasonably inconspicuous, listening for her cue as Mother played on. Ah, here, a repeat of the first verse. She sailed into it, her voice clear and steady. "My lover's gone . . . his boots no longer by my door. He left at dawn . . . and as I slept I felt him go. Returns no more . . . I will watch the ocean . . ." oh no _no_, it was 'I will _not_' and she'd done it again, slipped up again, good thing only she and Mother knew the words to these . . . "My lover's gone. No earthly ships will ever bring . . . him home, again. Bring him home, again."

Mother continued to play soft, heart-rendingly piteous notes as Wendy composed herself. The music then stopped for the second time, and for a moment the silence was deafening.

Curious also, she reflected in the soft hubbub of the approval that followed, how the stern old lady managed this time to applaud without making a sound. 

Polite farewells were murmured, and in a dreamlike shock she registered the young man's kissing her hand. No one had ever kissed Wendy's hand before, and she supposed she had ought to have had a more suitable reaction than a vague smile. However, the mist _would_ come, and John bowed her out of the room hastily.

"Wendy, are you alright?" Michael asked, looking plaintively at her.

"She's fine, boys, go up to bed," John said authoritatively. "We're going for a short walk; be sure not to tell Nana or anyone." He didn't listen to another word from any of them until he and Wendy were bundled up and safely outside.

The cold breeze dried the mist instantly, and there was a strong hint of winter in the air. Soon, she supposed, it must snow again.

That treacherous lump in her throat rose up, and the ache in her chest tightened, and before she knew it she was blinking and blinking and a wet warmth was on her face. John's gloved hand found hers, and she held onto it tight as the words she hadn't dared speak before began to pour out of her.

"Can't do this anymore, John. I can't. I can't hide in this house anymore, I can't sleep with the window unlocked anymore, I can't . . . I have to do it, finally - have to put this kiss in my keepsake box, and lock my window and buy a long dress and have this man if he asks for me - "

"Alistair Beazley," John put in absently, squeezing her hand tight.

" - and I am going to grow up and I am going to forget all this."

She was almost sobbing as she finished, and in the silence that followed her shuddering breaths were the only sound.

"Wendy," John said quietly, "Stop crying. No, stop."

His voice fairly shook with excitement, and when she looked up she saw him scan the heavens with an eager eye. They stopped dead on the street.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you earlier, I am so, so sorry, but. I had to be sure . . ." He looked around again, then turned to her with a curious smile. "You don't have to do any of those things."

"What do you mean?" Trepidation in her voice, her breath hitching.

"He was there tonight, looking in the drawing-room window bold as you please!" John whispered triumphantly, smiling right into her eyes. 

" . . . he?" The street and the smog clouds above blurred and grew dim. A buzzing filled her ears.

"Peter Pan." he said, as if it were obvious.

In response, she fainted.


	3. Chapter Three

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise is not mine.

AN: Yes, I post short chapters. I am guilty of what I hate in other authors. Nana Two mocks me.

**Chapter Three.**

The world faded back in from the blackness of the swarming bees and for a moment all Wendy could remember was how utterly mortified she was. John was holding her mostly upright by main strength, and she found her footing a little slower than either of them should have liked.

"You're sure you saw him?" she asked, without preamble.

"Are you alright?"

"John, are you sure? Are you quite sure you saw him?"

"Yes I saw him!" he replied indignantly. "Looking in at you singing like his heart was fit to break. I swear I did see him! Why d'you think I took you all the way out here to tell you? He'd be insufferably pleased with himself if he could see you faint like that."

"You're sure. Oh God, John, you _are_ sure, aren't you?" It wasn't a question. She half-turned, bringing her hand to her mouth in a dazed gesture.

"You don't have to stay here and grow up now, do you see?" John asked, taking her left hand and pressing it. Much as she hated to do it, she couldn't let that hopeful look on his face remain. She pressed back gently, her voice low and lacking that first surge of excitement she'd felt.

"It's been three years. He hasn't come to see us even once. Besides that, I'm almost sixteen - whatever would Neverland want with a great girl like me?"

"You mean, whatever would Peter want with a great girl like you."

"Maybe I do." She pressed her temple roughly. "I'm so old now, almost grown up entirely . . . it's quite impossible. Hopeless. Why, he's probably forgotten all of us, and just came to a window to hear a song."

John snorted derisively. "You wouldn't say that if you'd seen what I've seen. There he was, clear as day, if any of the grown-ups had cared to look. Quite as old as you and taller than me, I'm sure, looking exactly as if he was about to cry. I saw him as clearly as I'm seeing you now, and what's more, I've seen him hanging around the house before tonight."

"What?"

"I wasn't entirely sure then, and I couldn't tell you if I wasn't sure, but tonight – that clinched it. That was Peter, and he does love you, and you do love him, and you'll both die if you're not together."

His voice was so firm and determined as he said this that Wendy almost smiled, and though the choking feeling was back in her chest this time it didn't feel even half so bad.

"_Are_ you sure?"

"Wendy!"

Her eyes were bright with tears but she did laugh, then, surprising them both. And then John wrapped his arms around her, and she hugged him back hard.

Smiling, John stepped back from her and looked up into the sky. "If anyone was interested," he said in a louder voice than she thought completely necessary, "We're going home now, to Wendy's room. The one right of the nursery with the unlocked window. And I bet she'd be happy to find some sort of surprise waiting there for her."

Nothing happened, but it did so in a stealthy, yet oddly cocky manner.

Light as a kiss, snow began to fall.

Wendy grabbed John's hand, her eyes shining, and at the same moment they began to walk as briskly as Wendy's corsets would allow, John largely holding Wendy up when, as one, they broke into a short run back to the Darling house.


	4. Chapter Four

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise is not mine.

AN: Short but sweet, and fluffy as a duckling. I apologise.

**Chapter Four.**

Quiet as mice they sneaked in and up the stairs, and John left her with a wink and a self-satisfied grin. 

She stared at her door. Sounds of subdued merriment floated up the staircase. Her heart was fluttering madly. Doubting, insidious thoughts rose up – what if he wasn't there? What if he'd never been there? And dear God, what if he _was_ there?

_Don't faint_, she thought. _Don't faint, don't faint, don't faint_, she thought, drowning out the other voices.

_Don't faint_, she thought, her hand on the doorknob.

The door opened, slowly.

She stared, thinking her heart had stopped, thinking she'd died of surprise, utterly unable to breathe. But Wendy did not faint, and looking straight into Peter Pan's eyes, she knew they were both thinking what a relief _that_ was. The door clicked shut, and in the bare second that followed she had just enough presence of mind to lock it behind her.

He fairly flew towards her, though later he said he'd run just as she had, three steps she was sure was all it had taken to erase three years of untouched windows and empty skies and then yes, she was in his arms, and he was so very warm and holding her so very tightly and smelling so of rain and snow and leaves and _Peter_, and although she could hardly breathe just then she couldn't bring herself to care.

He whispered _Wendy_ into her hair.

She murmured _Peter_ against his shoulder.

And then just like that she was laughing, and crying, and he was laughing and crying to hear her laughing and crying at a moment like this, and then his lips were on hers and they tasted of tears.

They weren't on a pirate ship now, and so for the longest time they stood very still, moving only softly and gently, and very sweetly. The lamplight was golden; she was warm, safe, and being thoroughly thimbled by Peter Pan. Questions could wait, and did.


	5. Chapter Five

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise is not mine.

AN: I don't write anything remotely explicit, besides which, as a good Edwardian girl I'm sure Wendy's thoughts would go something like this. But yes. Yes they did. And she's technically sixteen, from the long time spent in Neverland.

**Chapter Five.**

She was never to know how much later it was that they found themselves wrapped drowsily in blankets and each other on her narrow bed. All she knew was that it had seemed to take all night, and yet at the same time not nearly long enough. Wendy had a vague sense that she was supposed to feel now as if she had lost something, but truly, she'd never felt like she'd found so much in all her life. 

It was then that something stirred in her mind, and she realised consciously for the first time that he'd been taller than her three years ago, and was taller than her still. _Quite as old as you and taller than me_ . . . It had seemed perfectly logical a moment ago, but she was fifteen now, and he was . . . 

She sat up abruptly, knocking him onto his back, his eyes fluttering open lazily.

"Peter!" Studying his face closely, she was amazed that it had taken her this long. "You've grown up!"

"Not all the way," he said, smiling mischievously up at her, "and neither have you."

Oooh, it was _that_ smile, the one that always did her in, and he looked so _very_ amused by how long it had taken her, and she very nearly let him pull her back down, but – 

She propped herself up firmly. "Peter. Why didn't you come back before? All these years, I thought you'd forgotten us. Really I did."

She sounded so hurt that the smile faded from his face.

"No you didn't," he said quite seriously. "That window's always been unlocked. And look here."

Reaching deftly up into the folds of her chemise, his sure fingers found the acorn at her throat. 

"You don't take this off. Not even to sleep."

She was silent for a moment, and her voice, when it came, was smaller than she would have liked. "Why'd you leave me?"

He did pull her down then, and she buried her face in the pillow. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry . . . but you wanted to grow up, and I had to leave so you could try it, and I had to stay away . . . I did watch you. Almost every night."

"Why didn't you come in, I wanted you to."

Her voice was muffled, and they'd been speaking quietly, but she knew he'd heard.

"Almost left it too late, didn't I." Was all he said by way of reply, and when she lifted her head she saw his chagrined expression.

"Almost," she agreed, looking down at him looking up at her and feeling as if she never wanted to close her eyes again. "That man downstairs should probably have asked me to marry him in a matter of weeks -"

She broke off suddenly.

They stared at one another for a long moment. 

He breathed, "'Should have'," and she realised they'd both been talking as if the very fact of their being there now, together, had decided her future. 

Peter broke the silence first, looking oddly vulnerable. "So you'll . . . I mean, will you. Will you come back to Neverland?"

"Absurd boy, that you have to ask!" And suddenly everything was golden again, and he was laughing, and the light stayed gold for the longest time until, at delicious length, she drifted to sleep in his arms.


	6. Chapter Six

Disclaimer: If you recognise it, I don't own it.

AN: Thank you so much to the people who reviewed; you have no idea how fuzzy that made me feel. 

Chapter Six 

She heard a voice close to her ear sometimes during the night, dragging her up from the depths as it soothed and reassured and begged her not to cry.

Floated up again briefly near dawn, warm lips on her sleeping ones and he told her to say her good-byes today.

Morning's sun was cold and grey, and the lamps had gone out.

Wendy suddenly shot up in bed clutching her heart, her blood pounding in her ears and oh _God_, it had been another awful dream and he was never, never coming back and each time she dreamed even a little of him the waking was worse. Her dishevelled hair fell about her, and just as she was about to put her head in her hands and cry, in the very corner of her vision she noticed something strange.

On the dark, polished wood of her nightstand lay what was unmistakably an acorn.

She didn't whoop for joy, nor crow as Peter would have done, but hugged herself tightly and whispered, "Oh, frabjous day!" It had been really, truly real!

Leaping up to dress, she had the opportunity of noticing her own state of deshabille, and the accompanying chaos of the bedclothes, and if it had been anyone but Peter, and if last night had been anything but what it _had_ been she was sure she would have blushed.

And then when she picked up her corset she did blush, because oh yes, now she remembered; that maddening, clever boy had sliced the laces cleanly though with his knife, and how she laughed and blushed now to think of it. No, she'd wear her old burgundy wool today; it was a squeeze, but it didn't fit too badly without her stays. 

_Dear, cunning, insolent boy_ she thought, laughing softly still as she hid the mutilated garment under her bed. 

It had taken her quite half an hour to compose herself to a degree sufficient for breakfast. Now, seated primly at the table, she was utterly amazed at how calm everyone was. Mother and Father had greeted her quite normally, and none of the younger boys threw more than half a glance her way. John had looked surprised to see her there, but even he hadn't seemed to notice . . . 

The fact of the matter was that she was sure they could all see, if only they looked, the brands that Peter had left on her skin. Unable to see her own face, she felt awfully certain that the truth of the matter was right there, in her lips and eyes and blushing cheeks and hands that had touched him, and yet – apparently it was not. 

And they didn't see, and she was leaving them. 

If Peter's hands hadn't still felt warm on her skin she might have cried at the thought. She was leaving, and she could never come back. 

Of course she knew she had to leave; she rarely told stories now, didn't fight, hadn't even run for years and was having trouble remembering how exactly make-believe was played. Of course she had to get out, as soon as possible, before she grew up all the way and entered into a grey living death. Of course she had to be with Peter in Neverland - both names, she knew now, meaning _home_.

But going away would mean staying away, maybe forever. Wendy Darling would fade out of this world, taking only her memory of her family just as it was now – the boys still in school, John not yet a man, Mother and Father's hair untouched with grey. She would not return to watch them grow up, marry, age and die. She wouldn't fly blithely in the nursery window to wake Michael's children – 

- she choked a little at the thought, passing it off as a too-hot sip of tea.

But there would be Neverland, and there would be new Lost Boys, and above all there would be Peter, and she couldn't say that she wasn't ready to go.

Father was leaving for work, putting on his greatcoat and hat in the hall. Mother was going out with Aunt Millicent to pay calls, possibly on Lady Hemsworth and the Hon. Alistair Beazley.

And though she caught them quite by surprise with hugs as they left, still she felt guilty about letting them go.


	7. Chapter Seven

Disclaimer: If you recognise it, I don't own it.

AN: Oh my god, the reviews! I've never had my writing reviewed before, and when I read these, honestly, I got a lump in my throat and a huge grin on my face, and went around the house yelling, "I am the smartest person alive, and the greatest writer that ever lived!" Then my sister smacked me, and I lost my balance and fell down, and the cat bit my leg.

Anyway, here's a nice long chapter for you lovelies.

Chapter Seven.

Slightly and the other one-time Lost Boys crashed about the nursery. Their shouting travelled easily through the wall of Wendy's room, but she took pains to keep her voice down anyway. They sat close together on her neatly-made bed, and Wendy kept her eyes on the acorn across the room as she spoke.

"I'm so glad," John said at length, when she had finished her edited version of the events of last night. 

She looked down at her lap, where their fingers were loosely entwined. "We're leaving tonight. And I – I don't expect I shall ever be able to come back."

"I know." And, incredibly, he was smiling sadly at her when she lifted her eyes. "I'll visit," he said, his voice in that moment more plaintive and affecting than he would ever have allowed it to sound with anyone but her.

"Today and every day," she said smiling, taking him in her arms like the child he still was. "Tomorrow night. We'll take you for a last adventure, and then you'll all be free of us both."

"Mother Wendy," he said, laughing a little into her shoulder, and she laughed softly too, knowing what he meant.

"What will you tell Mother and Father?"

She was glad John couldn't see her face. "I don't know. I really don't."

He responded more to the worried tone of her voice than to her actual words. "You could just go."

"No." She paused for a moment, then added contemplatively,  "I have to know this life's over."

"Wendy." His spectacle frames brushed her neck as he sat up, and she felt a sudden surge of hopeless affection for him. "You're not dying, you know!"

She wanted to laugh, or maybe to cry, or to hug her brother again. Instead she pressed his hand and said that she knew, and they sat together in companionable silence for a long time after, listening to the sounds of battle in the next room.

When their eyes were finally dried, they went in.

Much later, Wendy found herself standing before her parents in the drawing room. The very same room where she'd been informed of the existence of her kiss, so long ago now that it was almost frightening how close the memory seemed.

The sun was setting, painting the room orange where the lamplight did not reach.

"Mother," she said. 

Then, 

"Father," she said.

She'd had all day to prepare, yet her scripted words had fallen limply away and she had no idea how to begin. Her parents looked up at her from their seat; her long pause caused concern to grow and deepen on her father's aristocratic face until all she wanted was to run upstairs as fast as she could.

She breathed deeply, her fingers finding the neatly cut piece of corset lacing in her pocket. 

"Mother, Father – do you remember three years ago, when the boys and I went away?"

"To Neverland, with Peter Pan," her mother replied promptly, at which Father gave her a distracted look and half a nod. The boys had told them all about it – all, that is, save the few events only Wendy knew about or knew how to tell – all save Peter and herself alone in the nursery, Peter and herself dancing in the air, and the exact feeling in her stomach when she lay helpless at his side on the deck of the Jolly Roger.

But what they knew they _had_ remembered, and she was heartened by it.

"Yes, to Neverland. With . . ." She twisted the lacing, felt the edges begin to fray. "With Peter. Mother, Father – the fact is – that is . . . well, Peter's come back. He came back last night. And he. Well."

Mother's eyes widened. She stood, taking Wendy's free hand in both of her cool ones, and for the first time Wendy consciously noted that she was almost as tall as Mother now. She _couldn't_ regret this; she was leaving with barely a moment to spare.

"Oh darling, he's come back to you." Mother said, her voice shaking. Father rose to join them, his face drawn and pale.

"Come back? Peter Pan? What do you mean by this?"

Wretchedly, she looked at her father. It was now or never. "He's come back _for_ me. I'm going with him to Neverland, tonight, and I shan't be coming home again."

Wendy's mother's eyes filled with tears and she made a small choking sound. Father raised a hand to his lips, staring down at Wendy with pale, pale eyes.

"Wendy. Oh my darling, I knew it, I knew it when you came back and your kiss was gone . . ." Mother was saying tearily, and Father's eyes widened as if he'd just put the pieces together, and his gaze flickered to Mother's quite visible kiss, and Wendy suddenly saw so much that she'd never wanted to.

"He saw you last night, when you were singing. Didn't he." His voice was flat and resigned, and a hard lump came into her throat and for a moment all she could do was nod.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry I must go," she managed, throwing herself into his arms. "It's just that I love him awfully, and there's nothing to be done about it -"

"Mary," Father said helplessly, holding Wendy close, stroking her hair with unconscious desperation. "She can't possibly . . ."

Mother spoke gently through her tears, but her voice was firm. "She can't possibly stay, George. You know she can't."

"But this is all . . . this is . . . well it's ludicrous, that's what it is . . ."

His voice died away, and Wendy disentangled herself from him gently. "I know it's hard to believe. And I know it's so sudden. And I know," her breath hitched, but valiantly she kept the sob down, "I know I've made a terrible mess of telling you. But I have to go, now, before I grow up completely. And I have to go quickly – I couldn't bear to have it drawn-out . . ."

She looked from one parent to the other as she spoke, and when she had finished Mother folded her in her arms, saying, "Oh Wendy. Oh my little Wendy, my little girl, my little darling girl." Father, uncharacteristically, and with an awful sound like a sob, put his arms around them both and held them tight. Then Wendy did break down, and she cried in her parents' embrace for a long time.


	8. Chapter Eight

Disclaimer: If you recognise it, I don't own it.

AN: Our first new POV. Reviews, reviews – when I get them I turn bright pink, hug myself, and grin like a fool – in other words, I act pretty much like post-thimble Peter. I am unused to praise! It's going straight to my head! Which is why I'm horribly sorry for posting a short chapter tonight, but this one's my personal favourite so far. Coming soon – an actual story, and happy!Wendy. 

*showers acorns on reviewers*

Oh, also – the poem I'm using here is an old song, I think, but I don't really know what it is or where it's from. I read it in Julian May's excellent novel _Intervention_. The poem's meant to be entirely in italics, but ff.net is doing something strange and keeps resetting certain lines. I don't know why, but I'm sorry anyway.

Chapter Eight.

_There is a lady, sweet and kind,_

_Was never face so pleased my mind._

_I did but see her passing by,_

_And yet I love her til I die._

_Her gestures, motions, and her smile,_

_Her wit, her voice my heart beguiled,_

_Beguiled my heart, I know not why –_

_And yet I love her til I die._

Peter was reciting the old gypsy's rhyme under his breath as he hovered outside Wendy's window. 

From the distant look in his eyes, Tinkerbell didn't think he was aware that he was saying it aloud, and her tiny body thrummed with indignation. _Peter Pan_, hanging around outside a _girl's window_, spouting _poetry_? 

The shock and disgust was almost too much for her small frame. She hoped – no, she _damn_ well hoped he didn't think he'd be keeping this up once they got home, Wendy or no Wendy! And if that silly girl tried to change things around and mess things up again, well . . . this time Tinkerbell knew not to aim for the acorn, so to speak.

_There is a lady, sweet and kind_, he repeated absently, making her clench her small fists.

He broke off abruptly as the bedroom door opened, and observant little Tinkerbell didn't miss the way he held his breath when Wendy came in. Her eyes were red, and when she'd shut the door she leaned against it for a moment, her forehead against the cool wood.

He didn't have to make a sound – Tink knew he was thinking it.

_ . . . sweet and kind . . . _

When she retreated behind the Japanese screen to change, Peter slid the window open and landed on the soft carpet without a sound. Tinkerbell, bobbing gently in the air behind him, scowled at the bright colours and cunning dragons she might otherwise have delighted in.

Was never face so pleased my mind - 

Tinkerbell couldn't read minds, but that stupid rhyme was there, plain as day, on his face. 

_I did but see her passing by . . . _

After a long time, during which Tink impatiently - yet pointlessly - tapped her foot on thin air, Wendy emerged, and Peter's breath stopped again. The silly great girl was wearing a long white nightgown with the sleeves rolled up, banded with some preternaturally green form of never-ivy and bound with a thick brown belt. Stupid girl, and there _he_ was, no better, goggling like a buffoon.

_ . . . And yet I love her til I die._

The dominant emotion in her small frame right now was exasperation, but Tinkerbell would not have been a real fairy had she not also felt a sweet kind of ache in her chest - first when Peter took Wendy's hands in his, and then again when Wendy blinked her tears away and shone up at him.

Her gestures, motions, and her – 

She obligingly flew a halo over Wendy's head, sprinkling fairy dust liberally down as the girl closed her eyes and smiled, her last tears running freely down her face.

_- smile -_

 "Are you ready?" Peter asked huskily.

"Yes, Peter. I'm ready."

_Her wit, her voice my heart beguiled,_

Slowly he leaned forward, and pressed his lips very chastely against her cheek. He whispered something Tinkerbell could not hear – all she knew was, Wendy repeated it to him word for word, their eyes locking as they glowed at each other.

_Beguiled my heart, I know not why,_

Hand in hand they walked to the window ledge.

And yet – 

His feet left the cold wood. He turned. Looked at her.

I love her – 

Wendy stepped off the ledge.

_Til I die._


	9. Chapter Nine

Disclaimer: If your recognise it, it's not mine.

AN: Apparently I live in some kind of crazy alternate universe where "Chapter Nine is coming very soon" means "Chapter Nine refuses to come quietly, thereby embarrassing and frustrating me until I almost consider changing the genre to Romance only and ending the whole damn thing at Chapter Eight."

Anyway, this is a short chapter because I get the feeling that Chapter Ten is going to be pretty long. Although by this time you should probably just ignore everything I say.

I've only got time to upload this chapter tonight, but next time I'll reply to your lovely reviews. And I'll try not to gush so much.

Chapter Nine.

For one heart-stopping moment the sensible grown-up voice in Wendy screamed that she was about to plummet, that she'd fall irretrievably to a shattered-broken-twitching death, that there were names for girls like her who followed angels out of second-storey windows thinking they could fly – 

But she was not falling.

Peter's eyes held hers, and that familiar roguish grin stole across his face, that old proud and possessive grin from before that said, _Look what my Wendy's doing!_

With a bubbling spring of sudden euphoria Wendy realised that she felt nothing but cold night air under the soles of her feet. Nothing but cold night air gently swirling her nightdress and hair about her. No obstruction to the cold, cold air filling her lungs. 

She clapped both hands over her mouth and _screamed_, her whole body seeming to light up as her eyes sparkled and danced and the dull hurt of the lonely years fell away from them both. Peter looked, if possible, even more pleased with himself than before. _Oh, the cleverness . . .!_

She floated up a little, experimentally. Now down, just a tad . . . now back level with him. It was so easy, so light, so utterly perfect and simple and _known_ – and if she'd had time to think on it she might have been amazed to learn that she'd ever forgotten this.

"Thank you, Tinkerbell!" she whispered jubilantly, and was immeasurably gratified to receive a non-committal chime in return.

Then Peter grabbed her hand and all of a sudden they were_ flying_, really and truly _flying_ swift and silently as shadows above the darkness of the city. She was free as a bird, leaving behind grieving parents and sorrowing brothers and the weight she'd thought to carry for the rest of her life. Lighter than air she flew, high and fast and unafraid, completely independent of anyone or anything. 

Wendy Darling felt in that moment as though flying was its own happy thought.

Abruptly she laughed, a long, delighted laugh, and she pulled her hand from Peter's and raced on ahead. She heard him yelp somewhere behind her and sped along, fast as thought – but not too fast, of course, that he couldn't catch her up within seconds, rolling her behind a chimney-pot for a flurry of scorching little thimbles before letting her scramble free again.

In this way they entertained themselves right up to the second star on the right, at which point they began the serious business of flying straight on til morning.


	10. Chapter Ten

Disclaimer: If you recognise it, it's not mine.

AN: Okay, I'm trying not to gush like an idiot over the reviews today. Let's see if it works.

Thank you to everyone who reviewed, particularly Sparrow's Girl who reviewed every chapter, thanks! 

Artemis Goddess: you are the first person to review BOTH Neverland and Blood and Cherries, so go you! The parallel was that both were short chapters preceding a longer chapter, not any actual content. That would be scary. And don't worry; I've got a nice little ending for Tinkerbell. Provided she behaves.

Thank you to Zorrinna who urged me urgently to update! And thank you to every single one of you who reviewed – I think you've got a pretty fair idea by now how much I love your feedback.

Lastly, thank you so much to Harlem. I'd love to read your stories, but I don't know this "Newsies" fandom – I am your only favourite story not Newsies-related! I dance! 

And yes I know, they're all over each other at this point, but they're young, they're in love . . . *sigh *

Gushing like an idiot, I know. On with the story.

Chapter Ten.

Dawn had broken when they flew within sight of the island. Neverland glowed rosily in the morning's first light, the sight alone seeming to warm her chilled face, and Wendy didn't object at first when Peter guided her down onto the soft warmth of a particularly fluffy cloud. 

At length, though, she was obliged to.

"Peter?"

"Hmmm?"

"We're going to have to get down now."

"Hmmm."

"No, really, we're – would you stop that a moment?"

He didn't reply, and suddenly, for the time being at least, she didn't think it worth pressing the matter.

Some time passed.

"Peter."

"Hmmm . . ."

"If we stay here any longer I shall fall asleep."

At that he did stop, abruptly, with such a ridiculously affronted look that she couldn't help laughing.

"It's not – I mean, we flew all night, and I'm exhausted, and it's so lovely and warm right here that I – now Peter, really!"

Sighing, he gave up. "Fine, fine. Let's go home."

They drifted gently enough to the ground, though Wendy thought the way she had felt when he'd said _home_ could have kept her airborne for weeks.

Once there, they discovered that Tinkerbell had not been idle in the long while they had taken to arrive. The new Lost Boys were grouped neatly in a suspiciously tidy clearing, and each held a small bouquet of what could loosely be termed "flowers".

 "Lost Boys, this is Wendy," Peter began, with an air of ownership Wendy was appalled to find she rather liked. 

They didn't seem to require anything else, all staring at her as she had at Hook – a figure from bedtime stories made flesh. It was an unnerving sensation.

"And Wendy," he continued, putting on a woefully disappointed sigh, "I'm afraid _these _are the Lost Boys."

The rag-tag bunch grinned cheerfully at the slur. One by one they thrust the limp, yet colourful weeds at her as Peter introduced them by name.

"Charlie." A blonde boy, with a rather endearing gap between his two front teeth, was apparently the oldest there.

"Southey." Small and dark, the grin Southey gave her immediately made Wendy think of Slightly, and she didn't think the similarity of names was a coincidence.

"Gert." Gert was a brown nonentity at first glance, but on closer inspection his rather vacant gaze betrayed a glint she wasn't sure she liked.

"Twin." She had to stifle her laughter at that, for though Twin did indeed resemble her identical brothers; there was only one of him. She credited Peter's peculiar logic with this name, and later found to her amusement that she was not wrong.

"Peeps." Peeps was a funny little thing, red-haired as her brother Michael. She smiled as he presented her with a fistful of what was mostly long grass.

There was a long pause.

From the back, the smallest boy was pushed. He was no more than five, by Wendy's guess, as his white-blonde hair and rounded limbs attested. He looked solemnly up at her with eyes as blue as her own.

"And _this_ horrible little brat," Peter said, with a mock-threatening growl, "is the Imp."

The Imp looked from her to Peter, and when his eyes met hers again he grinned – an insolent, mischievous, _adorable_ grin that she would have known anywhere, that she would have – and had – followed to hell and back . . . Peter's very grin, exact and to the life.

Her heart leapt into her mouth. "Oh, the darling!" she breathed, sinking to her knees and sweeping the sweet little bear up in a hug. 

The Imp wriggled a little, for form's sake, but as she lifted him into her arms Wendy very clearly saw him realise that he was second only to Peter in the strange new lady's affections. He cuddled closer to her, grinning at the older boys, who to a man made grotesque faces back.

"Tinkerbell, you know." Peter finished. The fairy hovered a small distance from the boys.

"Thank you for the welcome, Tinkerbell." Wendy said formally. "And thank you for allowing me to land under my own steam this time."

The boys snickered, and Tinkerbell jingled something Wendy couldn't catch.

Peter translated, grinning. "She says they already knew that trick. I think she's joking."

That seemed to mark a truce between Tinkerbell and Wendy, and for a moment they smiled at one another.

"Yes, we've heard all the stories," Charlie said suddenly, apparently elected the one to break the silence.

"The one about the battle at the Black Castle, and Captain Hook and Princess Tiger Lily and John and Michael Darling!" one of the others followed, though she wasn't now sure which one it was.

"Thrilling stuff," Gert put in, interrupted almost immediately by the little red-haired one as the boys burst out talking all at once, any shyness they'd originally felt swept away in the flood of their eloquence.

"And the fight on the Jolly Roger, when Peter almost died!"

"Peter _did_ die, and -"

"Idiot; no he didn't, he's standing right there."

" - And then at the end, when you went home on the flying pirate ship,"

"Sad story!"

"Oh yes; dreadfully sad!"

"Awfully affecting, you know."

The small dark one called Southey elbowed forward eagerly. "Oh _yes_; why I quite cried myself to sleep for days!"

"Fibber, you did not!" Twin yelped, pointing an accusing finger at Southey. "You said Red Handed Jill was a stupid name, and you _laughed_, and Peter made you sleep outside!"

In response, Southey leapt on him and wrestled him to the ground, where he began most energetically to stuff leaves into Twin's mouth.

So it was, with her arms full of greenery and small boy, and Peter's arm resting proprietarily around her waist, that Wendy Darling knew she'd finally come home.


	11. Chapter Eleven

Disclaimer: If you recognise it, it's not mine.

AN: Meanwhile, in London . . . Thank you for your reviews, they keep me writing. I saw the movie again yesterday, and was newly traumatised. What else? Oh yes: no, the Imp's no relation to Peter, but they're very similar. And very, _very_ naughty. 

Sorry about this chapter, but I wanted a little more Wendy/John backstory. 

(You know, I _never_ thought I'd have to type the phrase "Wendy/John".)

Chapter Eleven.

Wendy's room was cold now.

She had only been gone a few hours, and it was already cold. 

John hadn't lit the lamps; didn't see the need, not with her gone; sitting on her cold little bed in the dark, watching his moonlit reflection in her oval mirror.

There wasn't a sound in the house. Everyone had already discussed how glad they were, and how it was all for the best, and how happy Wendy would be. Now Mother and Father were in their bedroom with the door shut. Aunt Millicent sat in the drawing room pretending to read. The Lost Boys sat in the nursery and did not look at one another. Michael cried and would not be calmed. Nana whimpered every now and then.

The window was shut. 

John remembers a day. Summer's day, a few months ago now, when he watched Wendy stare at herself in this same mirror. She was barely fifteen then, but Aunt and Father and Mother and the governess Miss Plum were already planning to have her come out next Season. Her hair had been put up that day for the first time. She looked so different, child's face under that elaborate woman's hair. The nape of her neck was bare between that hair and the collar of her dress, and, strangely, John remembers that detail now. 

He sat on the bed, watching her watch herself with an expression he could not read.

Hours passed. The light faded.

Something moved in the corner of his eye, at the window. She whispered something he couldn't quite hear. He thought it might have been _I hate this_.

They introduced the corsets and long skirts the week after. He wasn't supposed to ask questions about these things, but sometimes, in unguarded moments, he caught her looking as she had with a hook at her throat. 

"Does it hurt?" 

"All the time."

He heard her crying in her sleep every night.

Wendy's room was different now, like an empty birdcage. He was glad. He_ was_ glad.

Her dresses hung like ghosts of herself in her wardrobe. Her books sat disconsolate on the narrow shelf. A boudoir doll was perched on her dressing table, its eyes glinting in the pale light. 

John slept that night with her sword by his bed, and felt somewhat comforted.


	12. Chapter Twelve

Disclaimer: If you recognise it, it's not mine.

AN: Mara Trinity Scully – dear God, would you believe I actually thought of that while writing chapter eleven? And that it made me laugh? Seriously, you and I both need to get out in the fresh air more, maybe play some sports or something . . . 

And thanks for reviewing A Peep Into The Future, to those who did. I'd like to continue that story, but not until Neverland's finished.

What else? Oh yes, in chapter eight of Blood and Cherries, Harry's quill snapped and it freaked everyone out because the atmosphere was so tense. I forgot to add that to my Author's Notes in chapter nine.

Enough unrelated comments - on with _this_ story.

Chapter Twelve.

They were well on their way home when Wendy realised that she didn't know where home was. She'd vaguely assumed that they were heading for the old oak that had formerly hid the secret entrances, but they couldn't be – Hook's pirates had discovered that hideout, and not all of them had been killed in the last battle. In fact, they walked right past the venerable tree.

When she asked Peter about it, he looked awfully pleased with himself, and said only that no pirate would ever think to look for them in their new place. 

"Safest place in Neverland, I shouldn't wonder." One of the boys trailing behind them piped up.

"Is it really," Wendy said archly. Peter grinned and said nothing.

"He knew they'd search the whole island . . . every place but one." She thought this voice might have been Charlie's.

"It really is jolly clever, Mother," came a voice that she recognised as Twin's. It felt so strange to be addressed as Mother. Wendy smiled to herself.

The Imp had evidently had enough of being ignored in Peter's favour, and tugged at her hand, holding up a fist for her inspection. She knelt instinctively and held out her free hand. The Imp's fist sprang open, and suddenly something _awful_ and many-leggedwas scrabbling on her palm, and oh dear God what _was_ it -! She shrieked, flinging the hideous thing away from her, and Peter gave the Imp a not wholly gentle cuff round the ear.

"Bad Imp! Is that any way to behave?"

The other boys looked as though they were doing their best not to laugh. Wendy scrubbed her palm on her skirts convulsively. 

The Imp beamed up at her, wholly unrepentant and adorable to boot, and she didn't know whether to laugh or to give him another smack.

Peter solved her dilemma by taking her hand and walking on as if nothing had happened. This told her a great deal about the Imp. Looking over her shoulder, she saw Charlie pick the small offender up bodily and say something she couldn't catch to the other boys.

"Just up here," Peter said, "right . . . about . . . here."

They were standing in a patch of forest undergrowth no different from any other patch of undergrowth they'd waded through before. When she looked around though, all the younger boys were gone, and Peter was looking almost exactly as wickedly gleeful as the Imp had before he'd unleashed arachnid horror on her hand. Wendy was suitably hesitant.

"Right here?" she asked. "Where are the boys?"

In response, Peter stamped his foot, and the ground fell away.

As far as Wendy could tell, when the mad hammering of her heart slowed enough for her to hear her own thoughts over it, they had fallen no more than six feet. The clump of vegetation was returned to its natural state, leaving them in darkness, in a space not much larger than an upright coffin. She clutched her flowers to her.

There was motion beside her, and then what must have been a door opened directly in front of them. 

Peter pulled her by the hand, and then they were moving through the door, down a series of steps, and along a low passageway, to another thick wooden door.

He opened the door, and yellow light flooded in.

She breathed, "Oh, you strange and astonishing boy."

Peter looked, to use her brother's phrase, insufferably pleased with himself. 

"It's the very same house, isn't it?" she asked wonderingly. "We're in the very same place."

The main room was festooned with further examples of the Lost Boys' interpretation of "flowers", but in most particulars looked the same as it had the night she'd left. The boys stood grinning beside the great table. Candles and lamps were scattered liberally about, and the whole place shone with flowers and light. 

"Oh, _Peter_."

"After I disabled the old entrances, this was the safest place on the island. The new tunnels took some doing, but . . . the pirates won't find us here. They won't think to look here, and they wouldn't be able to find the way in if they did."

Wendy opened her mouth to comment on the ingenuity of the arrangement, but surprised herself with a yawn instead.

"Boys," Peter clapped his hands, "to bed at once, and no noise. Anyone who wakes Wendy sleeps outside tomorrow."

"Bed? But its morning!" she said, as the Lost Boys obediently grumbled and fussed their way out of the room.

"Oh, well we have adventures at night, and sleep all day," Peter said carelessly, watching them go.

The door shut behind Charlie, and Peter looked at her, now strangely hesitant. "We . . . that is, I, brought your little house, from before, down into the left hand room. And I hung some cloth, for curtains, round my bed too. I . . . didn't know where you'd want to sleep."

Wendy looked at his bed, at the end of the room, and felt a queer little thrill run through her at the sight of the makeshift curtains.

She checked to make sure her feet were still touching the ground, and then smiled into Peter's eyes.

"John can have the house -" she said, and that was as far as she got before Peter expressed his satisfaction with the arrangement in no uncertain terms.

They retired behind the white curtain, and a veil was quite literally drawn over the scene.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

Disclaimer: If you recognise it, it's not mine.

AN: Strange chapter, this. Peter and Wendy are taking over my story and making it all . . .fluffy. More fluffy than I meant it to be. Anyway – I'm sorry to disappoint you, gentle readers, but I am a prim and proper lady author and don't write smut! You'll have to resort to your wicked imaginations. 

Once again, thank you thank you thank you to everyone who reviewed. You are truly the wind beneath my wings. *cracks up * Sorry, I'm in that kind of mood. It's been that kind of evening.

Okay, on with chapter thirteen. I meant to say some other stuff here but I forgot, and you're not here for the Author's Notes anyway.

Chapter Thirteen.

Peter stayed awake long after Wendy had become a dead weight on his right arm, just watching her. He'd watched her sleep hundreds of times before this, of course, but tonight she was asleep in his bed, and that made all the difference. It was a source of limitless fascination to him, this new licence he had to touch her – _she_ was a source of limitless fascination, all these remarkable little things neither of them had known about her until now – like that throaty little laugh of hers that had surprised them both, and that_ very_ interesting thing she did when he bit her lower lip . . .

She snuggled closer to him in her half-sleep, mumbling something he thought was, God, you're warm. He closed his eyes. Smiled.

Peter had not had the old dream in over a year, but when he finally slipped into sleep there it was, as fresh and vibrant and immediate as ever.

_High over the ship in this one perfect moment he rests, within and outside himself, Wendy and loved the only coherent words, no painfearhate no more crawling creeping sameness between him and that man, and all is joy and light and youth and power and her soft whisper, This is yours._

_Utter sweetness, because yes she is so very sweet._

_"This belongs to you, and always will." He knows now that you can live for three years on the memory of words alone, if they're the right words – if you're loved. Perfect clarity, knowing he'll wait til the end of the world for her. He dreams this one moment for hours on end, this one, perfect moment._

_Then the dream shifts and changes, as it never has before, and he hears her crying. He has time to think, _oh _–_

- and then he was awake.

Wendy was crying, slowly and gently, in her sleep. 

Like many boys, Peter was rendered helpless by a girl's tears, and for one moment he had no earthly idea what to do. He'd seen her cry like this so many times before and had known then exactly what he would have done, had he been allowed past the glass; had indeed tormented himself thinking of what he would have done.  But now that the dream was reality, he knew only that it hurt to watch her cry. That last night, at her house, he had whispered to her and tried to console her in her dreams, but he could not stand to let her endure that again.

Some of her hair was tangled over her face. He stared at it for a moment. It seemed the thing to do to brush it away, so he did.

Taking action made him feel more in control. He followed it up by pushing her gently, whispering, "Wendy. Wake up, Wendy. Wake up."

She stirred a little, her lips making a small, soundless motion that what might have been _no_, or _don't_, and then her eyes slowly opened and focussed on him and she was awake. With a sob, she clung to him, running her hands over his skin and tangling them in his hair and saying in a low voice that caught and shook, "Are you real? Peter, are you here? Are you real?"

In response he murmured nonsense, inanities, fervent endearments he would never have admitted to in waking hours, and then gave up on words altogether.

Later, they lay awake in the half-light.

"What do you dream, Wendy?"

The question was direct, and demanded a direct response.

"I dream you're dead. Every night. I dream I'm lying beside you on that ship, and the hook comes down and you scream -" here she closed her eyes in pain, "- oh God how you scream – and I grab your hand but you're dead, you're already cold and I know it's not possible, but you're cold. Then I die, but when I die, I wake up. I'm not in my room; I'm in a strange room. I sit up and the first thing I see is the bassinette, and the second thing I see is the man beside me . . . I've grown up and married, and you never came back, and my whole life now is this baby and this man, and maybe you forgot me or maybe you died." She shivered and added, almost to herself, "He has such a cruel face. Even asleep, he looks so cruel."

There was a long silence. Peter's eyes in the low light were dark green.

He said only, "I will never leave you," and held her close.

After a time they slept again. Wendy did not dream.


	14. Chapter Fourteen

Disclaimer: If you recognise anything, it's not mine.

AN: Sorry it took me so long to upload this chapter, but it's been really hard to find time to write lately. Blood and Cherries is already written, up to a certain point, but I'm writing this fic as I go. Real life continues to get in the way. Sigh.

And now to answer reviewer questions: Honestly, the Imp is in no way related to Peter. He's just a very good mimic, with an ability to find a person's weak spot and exploit it. Poor Wendy; she never stood a chance. Yes, lightening bug, everything is definitely soon to turn hellish. It wouldn't be Neverland without adventures, and adventures, as we all know, are uncomfortable things. And sorry if it wasn't clear, Yuki Asao, but Captain Hook is dead. Very much so.

The big question: what colour are Peter's eyes? In the movie (in my opinion), his eyes are sometimes green, sometimes blue. Hope that makes you happy, bammaslamma29! *hands you a chocolate acorn *

Thank you reviewers; you are my sunshine. My only sunshine. You make me happy, when skies are grey.

Fic-wards, before I sing again.

Chapter Fourteen

Breakfast took place early that afternoon and consisted of cherries, apples, peaches, a cold lemony drink and bread Peter swore blind had been bartered for fairly. 

Wendy didn't feel like contesting the issue. She'd slept well at the last – wonderfully dreamless sleep – and sitting here now, with the Imp on her lap and her fingers stained with cherries, she was almost ridiculously content.

"I'd better go get your brother," Peter began, rising from the table where he had eaten nothing. "We're to have a grand revel tonight; he should have time to rest before, if he needs it."

"A grand revel," Wendy asked curiously. "What – no Impy darling, Gert's peach still belongs to him – yes, even if he puts it down – Peter, what do you mean by a grand revel?"

Peter's eyes lit up. "Do you remember when the Indians had that big party, the last time?"

She caught two sticky wee hands in her own, and jiggled the Imp on her lap to distract him from the wonders of other people's breakfast. "We weren't there for long," she said, feeling very soft and happy. She'd relived the first part of that evening so many times in the last three years.

Peter looked wary, then saw that she was remembering the good part, and relaxed. The boys fairly wriggled in their seats with anticipation. Plainly, tonight promised to be very exciting indeed.

"It's going to be like that," he continued, absently carving a flower out of an apple as he spoke. "Like that, but much bigger, with Indians and gypsies and all of us. They've been building the bonfires all day."

There was eager muttering among the boys at the prospect of bonfires.

"Gypsies? Oh you bad Imp, that was Gert's peach, you awful boy – are there gypsies in Neverland? I didn't see any gypsies last time."

The Imp grinned at Gert, safe in his perch on Wendy's lap. Gert responded by pointing at the Imp, then at the remnant of his peach. He mouthed _You_, then slammed his hand down on the luckless fruit. The Imp laughed aloud.

"There weren't any," Peter said casually, presenting the flower-apple to Wendy. "Gypsies come and go all the time. Imp, if you touch that apple you will be very sorry."

The Imp actually leaned away from the hand that held the flower. She laughed. 

"Peter, do you know the Imp smiles just exactly like you?"

The Imp obligingly did so, to Wendy's delight and Peter's obvious detestation. "Well, he has your eyes," he returned, as if trying to avoid taking all the blame.

"So he does," she said contentedly. "Sweet little Imp that he is."

She wasn't supposed to see Peter's eyes soften, but she did, and felt ridiculously pleased.

"The Imp's a naughty mimic, Mother Wendy," Charlie piped up. "He wasn't here three days before he started copying Peter."

"He makes people think he's sweet," said Southey in disgust. "Then they just let him do whatever he pleases."

"Except Peter."

"Right, Peter doesn't think he's sweet."

"Neither do we," Twin claimed. 

Southey looked very innocent. "Oh, so that wasn't you singing him to sleep the other night?"

Twin was, plainly, choking on his horror. He spluttered and stuttered, and then, in the ringing laughter, slid ungracefully under the table.

Southey yelled that someone was biting his leg, and Peter declared breakfast officially over.

Peter and Tinkerbell had left soon after the 'leg incident'. It had been awkward, parting again so soon. Neither of them had known quite what to do. They'd looked at each other, and then he'd said, "Bye," and turned to go. 

Inspiration had hit Wendy, and she'd called him back. "Peter, catch!"

He'd caught the acorn, laughed, then came over to kiss her soundly, right there in front of Tinkerbell and all the boys.

She smiled now like the Mona Lisa, a mysterious little smile she couldn't quite wipe off her face, no matter how hard she tried. 

She was well pleased, sitting here in the sun with the Imp in her arms, her boys playing about her and Peter and John even now flying home. It was a lazy, golden moment, which was why the first chill of fear, when it came, made her shudder so. 

Contentment like this can't last, she thought suddenly. No one can be this happy and live.

She realised belatedly that she had dropped the other half of her apple, and that it lay now forlorn in the dust.

"I'm awfully soppy, aren't I Imp?" Wendy said, smoothing the Imp's fine white-blond hair. He continued to play with an oak-leaf he'd found, a new spring one just the colour of Peter's eyes. He was systematically tearing the leaf to pieces, working along the vein structure with rounded little hands. 

"Awfully soppy," she repeated absently, looking off into the trees. It had been so confusing, the past few days, her emotions swinging wildly from giddy euphoria to chilling, wrenching fear. She had just never been so happy for so long, without having something terrible intervene.

Slowly she forced herself to relax, and the light began to seep back into the day.

The shouted laughter of the boys filled the drowsy air. 

"After all," Wendy informed the Imp, accepting the leaf skeleton from his clever little hands, "only grown-up stories end unhappily."

That seemed good enough for him, and should have reassured her as well.


	15. Chapter Fifteen

Disclaimer: If you recognise it, it's not mine.

AN: An incredibly short chapter tonight, because I was desperate to break the horrible writer's block that's been building up around this fic. I hope everyone can forgive me – for the length of this chapter and for the time it's taken to write. Thank you reviewers so very, very much – you know who you are. You each get a top hat full of acorns!

Chapter Fifteen.

John stood in the middle of the nursery, his hand unashamedly in his mother's, his father's heavy hand clasping his shoulder. He was the first thing Tinkerbell saw when she fluttered in the nursery window, followed closely by Mrs. Darling, Mr. Darling, the strange aunt, all the boys and the dog. 

The white curtains wafted about the open window, and Peter flew in behind her. A hushed silence greeted him.

"_Oh_," Wendy's mother said. Peter stared at her. Tinkerbell realised then that they had never looked at one another before, these two great rivals. She realised also that no one else was saying anything, and that Wendy's brother was wincing under the sudden tightening of his father's grip.

"Mother, Father," he said stupidly, silly English boy that he was, "May I present Peter Pan. Peter – Mother and Father."

It was ridiculous. It was absurd. It shouldn't have been hilarious, but it really was. The whole family was staring at Peter as though they found something odd about a flying, half-dressed boy. Peter looked away from Wendy's mother, and Tinkerbell, who knew him well, saw that he was near panicking – Wendy and Wendy's brother were clearly one thing, but to be greeted by Wendy's entire family seemed quite another. 

"Aunt Millicent," Wendy's brother babbled on, a glazed look in his eyes, "May I present - "

"Thank you, John." Wendy's father said tersely. 

He looked foolishly relieved. Tinkerbell wanted to laugh and laugh.

"Aren't you lovely," Mrs. Darling said softly, her very sweet mouth almost smiling. "I knew you would be."

Mr. Darling said, "How is my daughter?" Cold blue eyes like Captain Hook's. Tinkerbell surreptitiously sprinkled John with fairy dust, just in case Peter suddenly decided to flee. The boy had a large bag beside him, which she dusted liberally as well. Silly English boy, packing for Neverland!

Peter appeared to be made of sterner stuff than she'd thought, though, facing down Wendy's father as though he did it every day of his life. "She's very happy," he said, looking it seemed despite himself at Wendy's mother. Wendy's mother smiled. Mr. Darling seemed unable to stop glaring. 

"Take care of her, Peter," Wendy's mother said, coming forward, her sweet soft expression aglow. "And take good care of John too, won't you."

Peter nodded wordlessly, something strange and uncertain flickering about him. Mrs. Darling came closer, and to Tinkerbell's astonishment she very gently folded Peter in her arms. Just for a moment, no longer, and when she stepped back they were smiling at one another. 

"Dear boy," she said lovingly, "take care of my little ones."

He said, "Yes."

And then he was on the windowsill, and Wendy's mother was smiling through tears and holding Mr. Darling's hand. The younger boys were waving, and the strange aunt was holding the dog back, and the dog was whimpering and threatening to howl. John hefted his bag and stepped out of the nursery.

By Tinkerbell's light, the three of them began to fly home, the lighted window behind them growing smaller and smaller, until when Peter last looked back it had gone.


	16. Chapter Sixteen

Disclaimer: If you recognise anything, it's not mine.

AN: The song Alba in this chapter is by the Medieval Babes. Sorry it takes so long for each chapter, but something inevitably comes up whenever I want to post something new. Thank you to my reviewers and to everyone who reads this – you all get a solid chocolate parrot for Easter, you are the most lovely and generous reviewers ever. 

Chapter Sixteen

When John Darling felt the warm grass of Neverland under his feet he thought he might be imagining the rest, a delirious euphoric haze of stars and flight and liberty, and now sun and flowers, and a clear voice drifting towards them on the wind. 

"Is that -?" he began to ask, but Peter was smiling, so it must be her. 

"They're over here," Peter said, detached but perfectly friendly, just like before. As if John were just another Lost Boy, as if he'd never left or been anything else. To his surprise, John began to feel that familiar warmth spread over him again. Peter was Captain and king, and somewhere close Wendy was singing. Everything was just as it should be. He lifted his bag again, smiling.

As they drew closer, words began to filter out through the trees, ancient words that John knew very well. _Bel compagnon, si dormetz o veillatz?_

He found himself humming the old tune under his breath. _Non dormatz plus, suau vos ressidatz . . ._

He'd sat for hours last night in her empty room, and then that morning on his own bed he'd found a white feather. He didn't know what it meant, but it was in his pocket now. Qu'en orien vei l'estela, creguda qu'amenal jorn, qu'eu l'ai ben coneguda . . . 

There in a sunlit clearing Wendy sat, a small white-haired boy on her lap and a half-dozen others grouped around her. John and Peter stopped behind a thick cluster of greenery. She smiled as she sang, the littlest boy playing with a daisy chain she held loosely in her hands. Ostensibly she was singing for his amusement alone, it appeared, for the other boys were making a fairly good show of being involved in other pursuits. John rather thought the dark-haired one should stop singing the refrain under his breath, but apart from that they seemed quite disinterested. 

"Et ades sera l'alba," she sang, interrupting herself with a peal of laughter as the littlest boy grabbed the daisy chain from her and stuffed the whole thing into his mouth. "Bad Imp!" she scolded amiably, doing nothing to retrieve the flowers. The boy laughed, then, to John's surprise, turned on Wendy's lap to point right at Peter and himself. Peter shrugged, smiling, and went out into the clearing. John followed. 

Wendy put the boy down and stood up, holding out her arms to John. Her face was alight with happiness, and she was smiling, as he hadn't seen her smile in years. "John," she said cheerfully, hugging him tight, then laughing at the sight of his bag. "Whatever did you bring that for?"

He hugged her back, aware more of her happiness than he was of the Lost Boys' stares, or even of Peter's silence somewhere to his right. "Aunt Millicent fussed and fussed until I didn't have any choice about the bag," he said ruefully. "Mother packed you some more nightgowns and the green cloak, remember, from the dress-up box? And Grandmother Darling's mourning dress, for some reason. That's what takes up the most space in here. Let me think . . . oh no, I remember. Michael and Nibs made you some chocolate fudge."

He extracted a long thin package from the bag, which Wendy took apprehensively. "How did it turn out?" she asked.

"Well, you can snap bits off, and if you don't mind the smoky flavour it's not too bad. But the best saucepan's burnt beyond repair, and Nibs was sick all last night. Though that might have been unrelated."

Wendy handed the supposed fudge back to him. "The boys will like it," she said, turning to them to make the introductions. "Boys, this is my brother John. John, the Lost Boys."

Peter went and sat under an oak tree behind the ragamuffins, watching Wendy count them off for John. "Charlie, Gert, Peeps, Twin, Southey and the Imp."

John rather liked the look of Charlie; the oldest there, he seemed twelve or even thirteen. The last child Wendy pointed to was the little white-haired boy, chewing industriously at his daisy chain. 

"Hullo," he said, sitting on the grass before the other boys. Wendy sat down beside Peter in the shade, bringing her knees up within the circle of her arms. Everyone seemed to be waiting for him to do something, but he had no idea what.

"Are you really John Darling?" the red-haired one piped up. 

"Yes," he admitted. As far as he knew, this was so. In adult company, one's identity was rarely challenged following introductions, but it seemed quite natural here.

There was a snicker from the boy called Gert, and the one beside him asked, "Did Princess Tiger Lily really kiss you?"

John started, horrified to feel himself begin to blush. "Well, I – this is, um . . . yes. To some degree. Um. Certainly."

To his surprise, the others did not treat this as a reason to laugh at him, rather as his membership of some kind of club. Southey and the one called Twin nodded at each other, and Charlie looked quite impressed. 

"When you went back, did you have to go to school?" Gert asked. He was relieved – finally, a half-way normal question. He became conscious of a murmur to the back, and when he looked over saw Peter talking to Wendy in a low voice. Her shoulders were shaking, and she had a hand over her mouth. 

John decided to ignore them. 

"School," he said, "Oh, school. Well, we used to go to school, Wendy and Michael and me, but when the boys came to live with us Mother and Father hired a governess."

"What's a governess?"

A question John knew very well how to answer. "A governess is a bitter old hag who comes to your house to give you lessons and tries to make you act like a grown-up all the time."

A collective shudder rose from the group. "Sounds dreadful," Twin said cheerfully. 

"She is," John replied. "But my brothers couldn't go to an ordinary school; who'd have them? A bunch of heathens dressed in odd bits of fur." 

The boys looked rather proud, fitting this description as they did to the letter.  

"So we all stayed home with Miss Plum," he continued, ignoring sudden amusement from under the oak tree. Wendy was whispering now to Peter, and he was nodding and whispering back something that precipitated another stifled fit of hilarity. "And she made us do lessons all day, and she gave Wendy singing lessons and made her leave out all the good bits in her stories, and then she brought some utter pill to the house to marry her – Wendy, not Miss Plum," he added, "Not pinch-faced old Plum, not hardly. And then we came here."

The Lost Boys looked rather surprised that this was all that had happened to the Darlings in three years. "Is that it?" one began, but John couldn't tell who it was, because he was immediately interrupted by laughter, suddenly uncontained and ringing. 

Wendy and Peter were leaning on each other, laughing helplessly. "And . . . and . . ." Wendy was trying to say, giggling too hard to get the words out, and Peter made a vague fluttering motion with his hands that to John suggested a bird, and this set them both off again.

The boys stared in frank astonishment. "Mad," John said wonderingly. "You're both completely mad."

"Utterly," Charlie agreed. 

"Indubitably."

"Without a doubt."

"Mad as hatters," Southey and Twin chorused.

Peter managed something nonsensical that sounded like "Not if there wasn't one left," and Wendy laughed so hard she slid right off him and into the long grass.


	17. Chapter Seventeen

Disclaimer: If you recognise it, it's not mine.

AN: For more apologies for the horrifically long time this chapter has taken, please see my profile. To answer questions: I'm afraid I won't be writing any sex scenes of any kind, which I think would ruin the story anyway. You know, after the prince and princess get married in fairytales, the author generally just cuts to a discreet 'happily ever after'. The rating is for upcoming violence, and to be on the safe side. The joke that Wendy and Peter were laughing at in the last chapter cannot be disclosed, partly because my beta assures me that it was the worst joke known to mankind, and partly because I've forgotten most of it now. But John doesn't know either, so there you are. Oh, and Peter aged three years because he wanted to. Which really seems the only reason Peter does anything. Tune in sometime in the next decade for Chapter Eighteen!

**Chapter Seventeen.**

It wasn't long after Peter and John had returned that Wendy began to feel a slight sharpness in the otherwise balmy air. Barely suppressed excitement stirred the lounging boys, driving them after Peter as he wordlessly led the way back underground to the secret hideout. Wendy and John followed. The sky seemed to blush and the air to glow a deeper gold as they walked, as if Peter's very impatience were all the sun needed to be persuaded to set a little early tonight.

Once underground, the boys began to shove and jostle for swords. John dumped his bang inside the little house, but although he looked sidelong at Wendy the general exhilaration and festival mood that filled the house to bursting seemed to forestall any comment he might have wanted to make. The Imp stamped his little feet and made a high-pitched squealing, clambering up on the table the better to tug at unguarded hair and to shriek in unwary ears. Wendy laughed, sweeping him into her arms. So overcome with excitement was he that he immediately wriggled free of her grasp and was soon lost to her sight. Feathers and brightly coloured strips of fabric were being tied to any old bit of clothing to boys happened to be wearing, and in a short while the quite ordinary theme of John's white shirt and grey trousers had also been appropriately embellished upon.

She felt a tug at her belt then, and found Peter expertly tying a sheathed sword to it with a length of thick black cord. He grinned at her, but although she smiled back she felt apprehensive. "Peter, why are we taking swords?" she asked, low so that the boys couldn't hear. "Are the gypsies . . . unfriendly?"

He looked down, tugging the cord tight. The sword felt heavy at her side. At last he said, "No, they're not unfriendly. But you'll see when we get there." And though he smiled that impish smile at her again and tugged at her belt in a playful way, the thrill she felt shivering up her spine wasn't this time to do with Peter at all.

_This is a dangerous night_, Wendy thought as they emerged into a cool and lively breeze. The green cloak from the dress-up box, miles unimaginable away in icy London, swirled around her under the bruised sky. Charlie led the Imp away to where the Indians lived, and they looked like goblin shadows in the dusk. Even John's familiar eyes took on a dark gleam behind his glasses. The lit torches Southey and Gert carried swooped through the air, their tails of light fading behind them. Peeps whooped suddenly, as if unable to contain himself any longer, leaping over broad leaves and bench-like tree roots that grew up out of the earth before curving down to rejoin it. Peter caught the torchlight and glowed in it, taking her hand as they walked through the dangerous night.

They heard the first faint strains of music before they saw the flush the bonfires cast on the sky. Wendy seemed to feel her blood run a little quicker as the stamp and tap of the drums grew steadily louder and louder, and as what she knew to be a violin stirred the beat to greater exuberance. A little spring appeared all of its own in her step, and Southey and Gert began to turn around and around with their torches. Twin danced a mad little jig as they progressed, kicking the reappearing Charlie quite by accident. They grew so close that the shouts and yelps and laughter twined with the smoke and music in the sky, but even then Wendy couldn't have imagined the sight that would meet her eyes when they reached the party ground.

She gasped. Gypsies and Indians! Utterly useless words for this, which was a swirl of bright fire and full skirts in every colour imaginable, a singing of violins and a howling of completely unexpected bagpipes, the beautiful dark eyed girls and the gaily-dressed men that pressed cups of sweet dark wine on them. John stood at her side, mouth agape. There was as much of a hush as such a wild scene could manage, and a tall regal man that Wendy recognised as Tiger Lily's father came forward to greet Peter. A gypsy woman, her striking face lined and her magnificent black hair streaked with grey, was beside him. Slowly, Wendy went to Peter's side, and the woman smiled at her.

"Hail to you, Peter Pan and Wendy Darling," the woman said, and her voice was as rich and dark as her eyes. The taciturn chief inclined his head in an incongruously English salutation. Wendy curtsied as deeply as she could, but she felt that the effect might have lost a little in the complication of the sword at her belt.

"Hail to you, Queen Margot," Peter said, with a rakish little bow. "And hail to you too, Chief."

Tiger Lily's father's mouth twitched, and the woman addressed as Queen Margot smiled. Wendy felt a light something come to rest on her head, and reached up to feel a crown of glossy leaves. This adornment seemed to mark the end of formalities, and when Peter wore what she thought must be an identical green circlet the music struck up again, and with a great yell the gypsy boys swept the Indian girls into riotous dancing around the three great bonfires that crackled and spat fireflies into the starry sky.


	18. Chapter Eighteen

Disclaimer: If you recognise it, it's not mine.

AN: Well, it's been a while. I'd intended to have this chapter up pretty soon after chapter seventeen, but as you can see that didn't exactly come to pass. For some reason this story was dragging its feet, and anything I started to write turned into complete drivel. I'm sorry! I formally and abjectly apologise for the disgracefully long time this story is taking. I beg you to forgive me. I beg you! But isn't it better to have to wait for a good chapter, than to be able to read several appallingly trashy chapters one after the other?

I grovel, gentle readers. I grovel at your feet.

Chapter Eighteen.

Wendy sparked into life as she hadn't done in three years, and John thought he'd never seen her burn so brightly as she did tonight, here in the glow of the bonfires.

The other boys dropped swords and bows into an untidy pile with a great clatter, and Peter and Wendy did likewise before whirling around into a mad kind of dance. John struggled with the ties of his scabbard. Little gypsy girls with great dark eyes giggled their patchwork way over to the Lost Boys, and to John's surprise Gert was the first to claim a partner for the dance. Finally! The sword fell to the ground with the rest.

John looked up in time to see Charlie tug a young Indian girl by the plaits. She laughed and whispered something John couldn't hear, then they too were away. He was standing alone by the weapons and Wendy's cloak. Oh dear, he thought, pretending to himself that he was wondering what unattached girl he should ask to dance, when really he knew very well that he was scanning the crowd for her.

"John Darling?" a voice came by his ear.

Yes. It was her.

John turned. There she was, all five feet one inch of Princess Tiger Lily, offering him some dark drink from a pottery mug. "Tiger Lily," he breathed longingly, and she laughed.

"Welcome back," she said. He hadn't heard her speak English the last time he'd been here, but she didn't even have a trace of an accent. Not knowing what to do, he took the cup from her, and drank.

"Is it wine?" he asked her, with the syrupy cherry taste in his mouth, but she just smiled and drank the rest. He could see the firelight reflected in her dark eyes. She put the cup aside and slipped a warm hand into his. And then – though they barely moved – it seemed that the circle of dancers around the bonfires expanded and opened, and suddenly he was waltzing a laughing Tiger Lily around and around. The drums beat. The violins soared. Laughter spiralled out and out of Tiger Lily like a silk scarf in the air. Peter and Wendy wove past them, dancing against the current, and John thought that Wendy's feet might not have been on the ground at all.

It felt as though they danced all night. Tiger Lily was finding it harder to breathe and John's blood burned in his veins. Fires and fires under the sky, he thought breathlessly. Tiger Lily dragged him back to the tables of food and drink, and he drained another cup of the cherry-flavoured drink.

A young gypsy couple staggered to a halt beside them, laughing, with Peter and Wendy in their wake. Wendy's eyes shone dark and blue and her hair was a mess.

"Wendy Darling," the gypsy boy exclaimed then. John couldn't decide what his accent was, but didn't care. "Anna, it's Wendy Darling."

"I'm sorry?" Wendy asked, bemused. Peter stole her cup and drank off the rest. The gypsy boy took Wendy's hand and bowed low over it.

"I'm Remy, this is Anna."

"And John Darling," the gypsy girl interrupted excitedly. "And Princess Tiger Lily; it must be. Remy, it's John Darling!"

Though the gypsies had not been in Neverland the last time John and Wendy had, they were remarkably well informed about the events of that time. Their chatter washed over John and, it seemed, Peter, who wasn't even making a pretence of listening. He was tugging Wendy backwards, inch by inch, as she tried to nod and smile at the heavily-accented tirade. Tiger Lily was trying not to laugh. If Peter had succeeded in sneaking Wendy away it might have been turned on them – but at that moment the violins sawed off into silence, and a hush fell. He wished for his sword when he turned, because silence like that never heralded anything good.

John didn't realise he'd been expecting Captain Hook until the tall, pale man in red came into view. At his side was a dark-haired, wolfish man in a three-piece suit and top hat. And behind them . . .

"What are they?" he heard Wendy whisper to Peter, her voice trembling. "My God, their eyes . . ."

Conversation returned, a muted and pale thing, as the two men in the centre greeted the Chief and Queen Margot. There was no mixing as there had been between the gypsies, Indians and Lost Boys, not with these people. If they were people at all, John thought, and looked at Tiger Lily. Her mouth was set. She looked almost afraid.

"I didn't think they'd come," Peter was saying. "It's the Prince and Mr. Cross."

"But what are they?" Wendy asked. Their eyes, she'd said, so John tried to get a look at any of the newcomers' faces.

"Vampires," Anna said softly.

"And werewolves," said Remy, and the two of them melted away, and the Prince and Mr. Cross approached.

And John saw the Prince's eyes.

"John Darling." The Prince was before him now, and John hazily noted his long, pale hair, the red clothes that seemed to have come from another century to the one he and Wendy had so recently left. White skin, a pale mouth. And now that he knew to note it, and couldn't possibly have doubted it, a small pair of delicate fangs.

He couldn't reply. Flat. The Prince's eyes were flat. Pale blue eyes, all the pigment leaked out, all flattened in death. John wanted very much just then to be sick. He'd seen flat eyes like that once before, when a distant cousin had died and the eyes had still been open, and he didn't know now if that had even really happened but what he definitely knew was that he wanted to be sick.

He didn't know he'd been guarding Tiger Lily with his body until she pushed her way to his side.

"And Princess Tiger Lily," the Prince said agreeably. "Always a pleasure." He didn't attempt to take her hand. She stared defiantly back into those flat eyes until he smiled, raised an eyebrow, and turned to Wendy. Peter stood dangerously still.

"Wendy Darling," he said, in low tones. John thought she wasn't even breathing, and this frightened him more than he could have expected. "I have waited so long to meet you."

She couldn't speak any more than John could before. Her hand was in Peter's and John could see that she was holding it so tight his skin had turned white around her clutching fingers. The Prince smiled again, seeming to give up on any semblance of conversation, and made an elegant bow. No one breathed again until they had gone, and their presence was a far and brooding shadow behind the bonfires.

"My God, Peter, their eyes," Wendy whispered, and when Peter pressed another cup of wine on her she drank it down in one draught.

Mr. Cross stared silently at Wendy through the flames. Werewolves, John thought. The Prince made him think of a pale, gleaming snake. He thought about predators, and even the bonfires seemed cold.


End file.
